


Let Go

by ceywoozle



Series: The Great Sherlock RP Game [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deep Throating, Dildos, Gags, M/M, Orgasm Control, PWP, So many toys, Toys, all porn, but not really, dub con, filthy filthy porn, have i mentioned that this is filthy?, holy porn, mild bondage, no seriously, there is nothing good in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes John just needs to let go.</p><p>(Ostensibly part of the RP Collection but easily reads on its own.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> oh god this is so filthy i'm so sorry.

It isn't Sherlock's fault. If only John would _listen._

Now look at them. The flat dim, the candlelight unsteady in the draft from the open window, everything golden and hot. The table is set, the plates empty but the serving dishes in the centre filled with food, steaming inconsequentially. The chairs are empty still, Sherlock's tucked neatly under the edge of the table, John's pulled out, waiting for him, but not quite ready.

There is the sound of a low moan from the sofa and Sherlock glances over to where John is sprawled, knees and ankles trussed with two familiar scarves, arms twisted behind his back, forearms pressed together and wrapped into a single binding hold. He's gagged. A spider gag. This is a new toy.

Seeing John, hearing the helplessness in the sound that escapes him, there is the briefest moment where Sherlock can feel doubt, creeping and cautious at the back of his mind. He can't see John's face now. Somehow this makes it worse. But he restrains himself from going to him, focuses instead on the tiny motions of John's hips, gyrating softly against the back of the seat.

He is distracted, half his mind on his preparations to the chair, and he doesn't immediately realise what John is doing. When he does, he hears his own voice ring out, intentionally sharp.

_“John!”_

On the sofa, John shudders and goes still.

“Good boy,” Sherlock says, everything gentle. “Good boy, John. This is your own fault, you know. If only you'd said _yes.”_

Another moan, hollow and nasal sounding through the new gag, and John rolls onto his back where the bulge of his straining cock, trapped beneath pants and trousers, is evident in full relief. He turns a flushed face towards Sherlock and immediately Sherlock moves so that his body is blocking the view of the chair.

“No!” he says sharply.

The blue eyes are half lidded but so bright, and even from here Sherlock can see the desperation making them dark. John doesn't need another warning. With a hollow-sounding whimper that comes from the top of his throat, he rolls back over, his trussed arms coming back into full view, and Sherlock nods his satisfaction. This is how it's meant to be. John needs to learn how to listen. He's getting better, but the very fact that Sherlock is still reduced to these tactics is disappointing.

“It's your own fault,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, addressing the back of that mussed grey head, almost entirely blonde again in the golden light of a dozen small fires. “You should have just said _yes,_ like you were meant to. Regular dates are an important part of every relationship, John.” He frowns. “I'm sure I read that somewhere,” he murmurs. Shrugs. Not important.

He turns back to the chair.

It's nearly done. _One more adjustment...._

There.

Perfect.

He stands back and looks at it, admiring the sight of his latest purchase: a dildo, its blue shaft eight inches from its flat base, standing upright and fixed firmly onto the seat of John's chair.

He smiles with satisfaction, wondering how he hadn't thought of this before. The three interminable meal times each day that John always insists on could have been so much more interesting had he only thought of this sooner.

He hums a small, pleased sound, and from the sofa John gives another nasal moan.

Sherlock's grin widens.

He goes to him and John, hearing him, rolls onto his back, meeting him with a tortured look. He is flushed and sweating. His hips are moving again, a small shifting that seems entirely involuntary. Sherlock leaves it. As long as John's not trying to get off it's fine.

“Hungry now?” he asks. “You said you weren't before.”

John whines, high and long.

“Hm,” Sherlock says. “You're not quite dressed for it, though.”

John just looks at him, eyes dark and pleading.

“Yes, I know. But we have to be careful. Bad for the digestion, eating too fast.”

He unties John's ankles first, then his knees. It's easily done. The knots aren't tight. When his lower limbs are freed, Sherlock starts on John's belt, opening it with quick, efficient motions, then the button and zip on his jeans. He drags them off without fuss, John limp and unresisting. The pants are next, simple grey cotton, the dark spot already prominent where John's erection is pressing them upwards, and their descent reveals the black leather straps of the harness, the brassy glint of the small padlocks. Sherlock grins.

He is particularly fond of this piece. He's fond of the way the dark leather looks on John's pale skin, the metallic glint of its buckles and locks. He's fond of the way it makes John walk, slightly bowlegged, constantly self-aware. He's fond of knowing it's always there, under John's clothing. He's just as fond of it when the doors to the flat have been shut and locked and he has John undress, leaving him to spend the day wearing nothing else, till he's frantic and whining and begging Sherlock to take it off of him.

The belt, two inches wide, circles John's waist with an O-ring at the front where a second strip of leather is attached, disappearing downwards between John's legs to fasten at its counterpart at the small of his back. The straight line of its path is interrupted by the steel ring through which John's cock and balls are trapped, and at the back, in an adjusted fitting, invisible from the outside, a large plug is mounted, pushed inside of John and kept there by the strap holding it in place, shifting every single time the leather it's attached to moves, the every day motions of life—of walking and sitting and running and crouching—making him flush and pant in a way that only Sherlock understands. After the first awkward day, John's erection an unceasing pressure at the front of his pants, Sherlock had made a small adjustment, fitting a cage around John's soft cock in the mornings before they left the flat. It was better this way, John was happier. Just as flushed, just as desperate, but with a humiliation only Sherlock could see now. The cage was removed the moment they entered the flat, of course, John's straining cock allowed to follow its upwards inclination. They both preferred it that way.

It's not often that John wants this extent of submission. He prefers their bedroom activities be kept private, but occasionally something will happen that will set off this days long game between them that carries them outside the four walls of 221B. It is always something that sets it off, and Sherlock has learnt to read the signs, the small tells that John leaves trailing behind him, a wake of clenching fists and pitted brows, a firmly set jaw or a largely silent phone call from Harry. Sherlock understands this, this need for a man terrified of losing control to finally be allowed to give it up, to have that one aspect of his existence where for once, he has nothing to do but what he is told. He fights it sometimes, like on this occasion, but from habit more and because he knows that eventually he will lose anyway. And even that fight means something to John, the knowledge that it _isn't his fault,_ that this is something being done to him, something that _he can't help._

It was Harry this time, as it so often is. The 3am phone call from a stranger, slurred words that Sherlock could hear through the buzz of the receiver, the taxi ride to an unknown dilapidated flat in Hackney and afterwards to the hospital, where by 7am they had left her again, pale and breathing through a tube with the chorus of medical machinery humming her life signs with calm reassurance to the room.

That had been two weeks ago. Two weeks filled with the agony of John's wordless guilt, let slip through the sudden increase in solitary walks and the almost silent care with which he shut the refrigerator door every time he needed the milk.

Harry had recovered, of course, and been discharged. Sherlock hadn't been witness to that sibling exchange, but he had seen the after effects in the defeat in John's face when he had come home and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He had stared at it, as if it had begun to speak, and Sherlock, perched in his chair in the sitting room had seen the brief fight in John's face and had wondered what the outcome would be.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he had been relieved or concerned when the bitter smile had twisted itself across John's lips and John had tossed the spirit back in a single go before setting the glass in the sink and vanishing back out the door without a word.

He hadn't come home for hours, but every thirty minutes his phone had chirped with an update from Mycroft.

_Regent's Park._

_The cafe across from St Bart's._

_Smithfield Market._

_The Rotunda._

_The Costa at St Paul's._

_Southwark Bridge._

_A tourist's pub on the South Bank._

_The Nando's at Waterloo Bridge._

_Whitehall._

_St James Park._

_Carlton House Terrace._

_Jermyn Street._

_Soho._

_Russell Square._

Sherlock had ignored eight other texts during that time, playing absent minded chords on his violin with the phone perched on the window sill before him, knowing from Mycroft's last message that John was miles away and still unable to keep his eyes from searching out every face that turned the corner onto Baker Street, following every taxi that coasted onto their street.

He had devised this night during these hours of waiting, understanding the pits in John's face when he had finally reappeared, vibrating with exhaustion and tension and guilt. It had taken ten minutes for Sherlock to kiss him into submission, twenty to coax him into the harness. The click of the locks on the buckles had reawakened John's awareness, however, and he had struggled after that, the guilt returning and leaving creases on his face where it stepped.

Sherlock knows John, though. He had read capitulation in the pleading of his eyes, even as his limbs had strained for a dominance that Sherlock knows better by now than to allow.

Now, after three days in the harness, John is pliant and desperate and completely without control, except that which Sherlock exercises over him. He is flushed and hot to the touch, Sherlock's fingers feeling the intensity of the heat he radiates as the grey cotton pants finally pull away and John is left with his bottom half completely bare, save for the stark leather of the harness and the metal glint of its hardware.

The moment his pants are gone, John gives a sigh, his hips arching off the sofa. His cock, flushed almost purple, stands out upright from the silver circle of the ring and the tight blonde curls at his groin. Its tip is gleaming, the precum beaded pearl-like on its head before slipping down the shaft and leaving a glittering trail. John is staring at him, eyes wide now, beseeching. He is breathing hard and his tongue is pressed flat against the bottom of his mouth in a pant.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs. “Almost there.”

He takes the key from the chain around his neck where he keeps it, safe and always nearby. John whines when he sees it, his hips thrusting into the air so that Sherlock has to forcibly calm him before he can fit it into the small locks on either side of the O-ring in the centre of John's stomach.

They click open easily and Sherlock begins the process of unbuckling John, his fingers steady, every movement deliberate.

John is silent but breathing hard and his eyes are closed tightly. His arms are still trussed tightly behind his back and laying on them as he is now, his pelvis is thrust at a forward angle, his cock standing completely upright. Sherlock knows he's going to have to let John come before he can take the harness with its steel cock ring off, so as soon as the buckles are loose, the ends of the leather straps hanging undone so that only John's engorged cock and the tight clench of his arse around the plug is all that is keeping it in place, Sherlock pushes John gently over and John lets him, shifting awkwardly onto his stomach till his face is pressed sideways into the cushion and his arse is thrust into the air.

Sherlock moves behind him, kneeling between his calves spread on the seat of the sofa. He pulls the plug out slowly, counting the seven ridges as each one comes free. It is of uniform thickness, 2.68 inches across. It is large, but Sherlock knows from experience that one of the few things that keeps John helpless is the feeling of being kept open and filled. As each ridge slips from the rim of his hole, John gives a single sigh, an almost silent sound of relief and want. By the time he is empty, every ounce of tension has been released from his body and when Sherlock unzips his flies and pushes himself into John's open hole, John can do nothing more than whimper.

Sherlock starts to thrust into him quick and hard, fast efficient movements that rapidly has the tension ratcheting back into John's body and he is thrusting himself backwards into the pounding pressure of Sherlock's cock. He is moaning now, loud and helpless and needy, and Sherlock reaches around to push two fingers into his mouth, feeling the hard edges of the gag, the desperate stretch of John's tongue as he eagerly tries to clamp down with his lips on the new intrusion. He can't, of course, but he's getting more and more desperate and Sherlock begins to realise that this won't be enough.

Abruptly he stops, pulling out of John in a single movement and stepping back. John gives a cry, nasal sounding through his forcefully opened mouth. Sherlock doesn't say anything, just leaves him there and disappears into their bedroom. When he comes back, however, John is rutting himself into the sofa cushion and Sherlock, with a scowl of disapproval, smacks him six times on the arse with the palm of his hand.

“Stop it,” he scolds, when John shows an inclination to keep rutting. “I won't use this on you if you don't behave.”

The blue eyes, wide and dark, fly to the object in his hand and Sherlock sees the shudder that wracks him, and all at once John is struggling to pull himself up again. Sherlock helps him, helping him to shift forward so when he leans down now his chin is resting on the arm of the sofa and his arse is once more in the air. Sherlock's own flies are still down and his cock is still hard. He thinks of that soft mouth, forced open and waiting, and his own anticipation is almost impossible to bear.

“Good,” he says, aware that his voice is thin and almost breathless. “Excellent, John.”

The mounted dildo is the same size as the one on the dining chair, eight inches from base to tip. It's slightly thicker, however, 3.8 inches in diameter, and the contraption as a whole is heavy from the small motor in its base.

He goes behind John first, pushing the toy in slowly, watching it disappear into John's hole. John is moaning, a stuttered sound filled with desperation and Sherlock slides the dildo portion all the way in before letting it go, forcing John to clench tightly around it to keep the weight from dragging it out again, and only then does he walk around to John's head where it's resting on the arm of the sofa. John's eyes follow him, staring upwards, silently begging him to hurry up, so Sherlock does. He doesn't give him time to adjust before pushing his cock between John's opened lips and sliding it without hesitation all the way down John's throat till he feels him gagging, his throat trying to close down around him.

Sherlock doesn't pull out right away, lets John choke while he bends over and grabs the toy again, the handle where the motor is hanging heavy against John's thighs, and when Sherlock's grasped it he flips the small switch and the toy starts to move, the dildo thrusting slowly in and out of John's arse.

Only then, when he's found his own balance, stretched between John's mouth and arse, does Sherlock pull his own cock back, letting John gasp for air before shoving roughly back down. He adjusts the switch on the fucking stick, knowing that this isn't time to take it slow. The food is getting cold and John still has to eat. Almost without pause, the dildo in John's arse is pounding at the highest speed, a hard fast motion that Sherlock immediately starts to copy with his own cock deep in John's open throat. His own orgasm is approaching quickly but he knows John has to come first. He wonders how long he can hold out, but this is business now. Pleasure comes later. For now, all he needs is for John to come. He's too close to the edge and Sherlock doesn't want him desperate now. He wants him relaxed. Tonight, the last night of this particular game, will need to go slow.

John is a mess below him. Sherlock can feel the tension in him, the utter lack of control. It's the perfect place for him to be right now. His own orgasm is getting closer and he knows he won't be able to stop it for much longer.

“John,” he says, breathless and panting and barely audible, but he knows John hears him. “John. Come.”

And John does, his entire body suddenly tightening, his hips convulsing uncontrollably as he comes hard, and Sherlock knows that if his own cock wasn't thrust down John's throat, John would be screaming. And it's this thought that finally sends him over as well, a sudden shout torn from him and he pushes forward one last time and comes deep down John's open throat, his entire body vibrating with the force of it.

He doesn't let it incapacitate him. He can't. The fucking stick it still thrusting into John's arse and Sherlock's cock, softening now, is oversensitive in John's mouth.

He pulls himself out first, aware that John's face is wet with sweat and tears and saliva. His eyes are screwed tight and he is writhing uncomfortably against the double intrusion that is suddenly too much, and only then does Sherlock flick the switch that slows and stops the fucking stick and carefully he pulls it all the way out.

As soon as he does John gives a choked and broken sound and collapses sideways on the sofa, almost falling off the edge except that Sherlock is there, holding him and pulling him close, one arm tight around his back while the second hand finds the catch on the spider gag and slips the release. He pulls it out and as soon as he does John gives a full throated moan, pushing his face into the soft material of Sherlock's shirt, and for a moment Sherlock thinks that they've gone far enough, that the game is over for the night, but even as he thinks that he feels the sudden pinch of teeth on the flesh of his stomach where John has buried his head.

“John,” he snaps, and the teeth bite down harder.

Sherlock growls, rising abruptly to his feet so that John is left unbalanced, struggling against gravity and his still bound arms.

“I see you're still hungry,” Sherlock says grimly, and without waiting for John to steady himself he starts to pull him to his feet. John is unsteady, his legs wobbling, his knees folding. Sherlock takes him under his arm and guides him to where the food is now cold on its serving plates and John's chair, the eight inch dildo, still waits.

Sherlock knows the moment John first sees it, can feel the sudden stiffening and the sudden protesting pull backwards. He smiles grimly and holds on to the abruptly heavy body in his grip.

“Hush, John,” he says. “You need to eat.”

He positions John in front of the chair, carefully spreading his legs to shoulder width before moving behind him. John doesn't try and get away. He is too weak, his knees too unsteady. When Sherlock stands behind him and presses him slowly downwards, he goes.

The dildo holds firm, standing steadily upright as John is lowered down on top of it. Sherlock pauses several times to let one hand slide down between the crease of John's cheeks to feel its progress into John's hole. He doesn't need to do this. He knows he's positioned the dildo perfectly, but he likes it, feeling the slow slide of John being filled, the stretched ring of his anus, hot with abuse.

John is heaving now, his breath coming loud and fast, a steady moaning emerging in an unrelenting stream from between his swollen lips. It is wordless, but Sherlock can hear the sibilant beginnings of his own name before it is lost in the greater noise of John's need.

And finally, after what seems like forever, John is fully seated. His arms still trussed behind his back means he is leaning forward somewhat and he is unable to steady himself when Sherlock shifts the chair closer to the table. He gives vent to a tortured groan as he strains against the toy buried inside of him and Sherlock, moving around to take his own seat at the table, can see where John's cock is already starting to twitch between his parted thighs. It's still soft though and Sherlock frowns, reaching down to push the bottom hem of John's shirt all the way out of the way so that it's fully visible to him.

“We'll have to figure something out. Your refractory period is far too long,” Sherlock says. John just looks at him, his eyes wide and his lips parted. He is still panting and he is tense and frozen, unable to move on the rubber cock that is splitting him open on his chair, and Sherlock can't help the smile that comes to his lips.

“Not full yet, are you?” he says, taking his own seat and looking over the selection of now cold dishes in the middle of the table. “Chicken?”

John says nothing, but the whine that emerges from him doesn't sound like agreement and Sherlock frowns again, looking meaningfully at the place where the intervening table hides John's cock from his view, flaccid between his thighs. “You're the one who insists on three meals a day. Now, open your mouth, John. You need to eat and I'm not letting you leave this table till you've made yourself come again.”

John says nothing, but when Sherlock holds the fork full of cold chicken at his lips, he opens his mouth and, without a word begins to chew.

 


End file.
